


Appetite.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complete disregard for timeline, Consensual Bloodplay, M/M, Sexual Content, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants this to be different, wants Peter to be more than something to whet his appetite.  </p>
<p>But the ache won't go away.  It twists at his insides, stronger than ever and he doesn't think he'll be able to make it until he's done, until he can sneak off to his bathroom and cut open his chest or his palms.  He doesn't think he can wait long enough to tide himself over on his own blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appetite.

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea just hit me one day while I was in class and I managed to bang it out between last night and this afternoon. I really didn't expect to get so invested in this show but here we are. I hope you lovely readers enjoy. xo.

He's barely been inside Peter for a minute when he feels the ache starting in his stomach, crawling up his throat and into his mouth until he feels like he's swallowed sand. He tries to ignore it, he genuinely does. He stares at the window across from his bed, stares at the reflection of him fucking Peter. Peter has his head down, hair dangling in front of him and Roman tries to envision the look on his face, tries to picture how Peter's mouth must be hanging open, lips slick with saliva. 

He tries because he wants this to be different, wants Peter to be more than something to whet his appetite. But the ache won't go away. It twists at his insides, stronger than ever and he doesn't think he'll be able to make it until he's done, until he can sneak off to his bathroom and cut open his chest or his palms. He doesn't think he can wait long enough to tide himself over on his own blood, the taste sour and weak but just good enough to quell the desire in his throat. 

His hips are moving automatically, the motions practiced and embedded in his muscles and he looks back at his reflection, absently running one hand down Peter's back. Peter's skin is pulled tight around his bones and Roman knows that he'd need only a little pressure to break that smooth surface. His thoughts are out of control and he makes a halfhearted attempt to stop them but it's already too late. All he can think of is _blood blood blood_ and he folds his body down over Peter's, wrapping his left hand around his wrist. The angle drives him even deeper and while Peter is distracted, cursing in his Gypsy language (or Romani, whatever), Roman quickly reaches out for his bedside table and snatches a razor blade from underneath a book. When he straightens back up, he takes a quick glance sideways but Peter doesn't seem to have noticed his wandering hands. 

This is good. He wonders if he could cut Peter without him noticing, wonders if he could get away with it. He's pretty sure that he could. He tucks the razor blade into his mouth and slows down his thrusts, hoping that the slower movements will prevent him from cutting his own tongue open. 

(If that happened, he knows that he'd just swallow down his blood until he choked on it.)

Peter's whining underneath him, fingers digging into his white sheets but Roman ignores him and runs his palms down Peter's back, lingering over the scars that dot his flesh. 

Roman wonders if he'd notice one more. 

He tenderly slips the razor blade off his tongue so that it's between his lips. It briefly snags on the corner of his mouth and he immediately swallows down the drop of blood that wells up. It sears his throat right down to his stomach and he can't help but groan. He needs more, _needs_ it and he finds a spot on Peter's shoulder, untarnished by another scar, that he thinks he can cut quickly. Wrapping one of his hands into Peter's hair, he goes to pluck the blade from his mouth when he hears Peter's gravelly voice, slightly muffled by the pillow, whispering what sounds an awful lot like _do it_. 

“What did you say?” Roman asks, the blade falling from his lips and onto Peter's spine. Peter lifts his head from the pillow, shoves his hair behind his ear and when Roman glances sideways towards the window, Peter's reflection is staring directly at him. 

“I said do it,” he says, staring at Roman for another moment before he drops his head back down. For the longest time, Roman doesn't know what to do. He's never had anyone give him permission, never had anyone who consented to letting him open up their flesh. Peter's different, he's _so_ different and so Roman pushes his hair away from his face and picks the razor blade back up. It's shiny with his blood and with the sweat from Peter's back and Roman licks it clean, licks it until the metal is showing him his own face when he looks at it. Only then does he press the sharp corner into a piece of skin just below Peter's shoulder blade. His Gypsy boy cries out once (and what a lovely fucking sound it is) and then his blood starts flowing from the small wound, trickling down his back. Roman tosses the blade back onto his bedside table and then he's leaning down, tracing that trickle of blood with the tip of his tongue and sweet God, it's fucking heavenly. 

It's so much better than his own blood. Peter tastes like the wilderness, like fresh air and tree bark and fallen leaves and the underlying iron taste that exists in everyone is only barely perceptible. Once he's traced the trickle back to the wound, he wraps his lips around the cut and _sucks_. Peter practically fucking convulses; he throws his head back and Roman wraps his hand in his hair again. His blood is like the sweetest fucking ambrosia in his throat; it quenches rather than burns and Roman knows that there's no going back from this. His own blood will never tide him over now that he's tasted Peter's. 

The wound runs dry far too quickly and he pulls away reluctantly, pressing his mouth against Peter's neck. Some part of him has kept his hips moving and he can feel the muscles in his stomach starting to twitch. He just needs a little bit more and he wonders if Peter would let him bite his neck. Some part of him wants to try it, regardless of permission, wants to see if his Gypsy boy would let him tear out his throat. 

He pulls back instead, picks the blade back up and presses it into the skin beside the first wound, creating a neat set of parallel marks. Peter cries out again and one drop of blood glides down his sides onto Roman's sheets. The rest don't get that far because Roman scoops them up into his mouth and suddenly, he's coming. His head is spinning and his taste buds are exploding and Peter is just so fucking tight. It's absolute sensory overload and he's pretty sure that if he'd snorted any coke before fucking Peter, his heart would have blown up in his chest. 

When the overload becomes a little more manageable, he realizes that Peter hasn't come yet. That just won't do. He pulls out quickly (probably too quickly, he realizes), drops his condom onto the floor and flips Peter onto his back. Peter is staring down at him, pupils blown, cheeks flushed and Roman smirks up at him, feeling supremely confident despite his lack of experience in this area. 

Apparently it's just a day for new things, he muses as he drags his tongue up Peter's cock. Peter groans and breaks his gaze, throwing his head back into the pillow. Roman bases his technique on whatever words are coming out of Peter's mouth (English is okay, Romani is much better) and when Peter comes, his hips jerking off of the bed, he licks up every drop just as diligently as he'd licked up Peter's blood. It tastes differently from a girl's cum and although he doesn't know if its just the substance in general or Peter's specifically, he thinks that he likes it better. 

He's starting to drop down from his blood high but he manages to pull himself back up so that he's hovering over Peter, running his long fingers over Peter's jugular. He can feel the blood throbbing underneath his skin and it makes his throat dry. 

“How do I taste?” Peter asks and Roman flicks his eyes back up to Peter's face. Peter's smirking but the look in his eyes is anything but amusement.

“Want to find out?” Roman asks in return and suddenly Peter's surging upwards, grabbing Roman's hair as he practically attacks his mouth with his lips and his teeth and his inquisitive tongue. 

There's no coming back from this now and sure, there are long-term things to think about but Roman's never been one to think about the future. All that matters is that Peter's blood is still burning like whiskey (but better) in his stomach and Peter is licking the inside of his mouth like he's trying to scrape out his blood from between the cracks in Roman's teeth. He's so fucking different and he's so fucking _perfect_.


End file.
